O Inspector! My Inspector!
by broadwaybaby529
Summary: "Oh, Miss Fisher," she positively frozen when she heard her name, afraid that he'd woken to find her watching him sleeping, even more afraid that he hadn't. And then, in a tone of voice she had never heard Inspector Detector Jack Robinson use in all the time she had known him, a hungry growl, a husky, desperate demand, he said, "call me Inspector."
1. Chapter I

**Disclaimer: **I don't want to own the rights to Phryne Fisher, I want to be her. Alas, I have so far achieved neither of those objectives.

**Rating: **Let's start with M, simply because things are going to progress quite quickly.

**Pairings: **The slow unraveling of our favorite Inspector Detector's self control when it comes to the beautiful female detective. Also Dottie and Hugh casual mentions.

**Warnings: **Dirty dreams, excessive drinking, central theme of power plays, gratuitous flirtation, and more as they come.

**A/N: **I'm only a little ways into Season 2, and this story takes off where I am in the show, so stick with me. Thanks so much for reading!

O Inspector! My Inspector!

"And that's when I said, 'excuse me, Vicar, I believe that dress goes on the other way around.'" Phryne paused in the doorway when she realized that, not only was Inspector Detector Jack Robinson not utterly enthralled with her tale of procuring the Moroccan liqueur in which they were about to imbibe, he was fast asleep.

A sleeping Jack looked at least five years younger, Phryne thought to herself. He was stretched across the settee, his feet dangling off the red velvet at a slightly unnatural angle, his head cradled in one hand, and the ghost of a smile tugging at the corners of his tired mouth.

Surely, the Inspector deserved a good rest. They'd only just finished a case that very evening, a double homicide and jewelry theft ring, and Lord only knew that she was exhausted – and Jack had to deal with all of the paperwork and criminal justice system nonsense in addition to actually solving the crime. Well, helping her solve the crime.

Phryne knew that she should probably wake him, at the very least to try get him to sleep in an actual bed, but he looked so peaceful, lying on the couch like that, and she knew that he didn't get a peaceful sleep nearly often enough.

Besides, she liked watching him, if only for a few moments. He was handsome, in an unexpected, almost quiet, sort of way. Though, bizarrely enough, Phryne had taken to comparing features of her more recent conquests to those of the man before her. She attributed the out-of-character behavior on the sheer amount of time she was spending in the Inspector's presence – a rather rare occurrence when it came to her and eligible men.

Jack shifted slightly, and some of his formally pressed hair fell over his eyes, giving him a boyish sort of appeal. He really wasn't old, barely a few years above herself, and yet, aged by war and crime and lost love, his face had lines etched deep in the skin, where none might exist on an older man. Phryne paused in that assessment – surely her own face showed a myriad of life experiences not shared by many.

A small smile crept up Jack's face, and Phryne had to wonder, as she took a sip of the liqueur they were meant to be share, if Jack was having good dreams. She was just about to consider the dangerous path of trying to understand when this man had become _Jack_ to her, when said man began to speak – or rather, mumble.

"Good evening," he whispered, just audibly enough so that Phryne nearly spit out her drink before arranging her face perfectly to explain away why she had been watching him sleep – a concept she couldn't quite explain to herself, when she realized that he was still doing it.

Oh, she should really wake him now – _something_ to keep the man from divulging every secret he'd ever had. But though her mind was racing, her body suddenly froze, and he spoke again.

"On the desk," he paused, mumbled something incoherent, and then whispered, his voice husky with sleep, "you bad girl." So they were _those_ sort of dreams then. Her blood was racing now, and Phryne could feel a flush rising in her cheeks. It was one thing to indulge in your own nocturnal dalliances, and when lucky enough to be visited by those nighttime fantasies Phryne quite enjoyed them, always waking in a sunny mood.

It was quite another thing, however, to listen in on the subconscious desires of someone else, quite especially if that someone else were a friend – or, well, whatever they were, and a very proper gentleman, who, due to his profession, had the ability to lock her up if he ever found out.

"Do I have to handcuff you?" she heard him mumble. On second thought, he'd probably quite enjoy the locking up bit.

Strangely enough, Phryne could feel her own body responding to the Inspector's words. Her breasts were tingling slightly, and the flush on her cheeks had deepened. Her whole body was heating up from someone else's dirty dream. A traitorous part of her mind grabbed hold of the thought that her reaction might have had more to do with whose fantasy it was, rather than the dream itself.

Thankfully, that thought was interrupted by more from the budding Marquis de Sade copycat currently sprawled across her settee.

"Oh, Miss Fisher," she positively frozen when she heard her name, afraid that he'd woken to find her watching him sleep, even more afraid that he hadn't, and these were the thoughts that he'd never say awake. And then, in a tone of voice she had never heard Inspector Detector Jack Robinson use in all the time she had known him, a hungry growl, a husky, desperate demand, he said, "call me _Inspector." _

It would have been ridiculous had the situation been different, comical even. But the sensations shooting through Phryne's body at the Inspector's demand, and the flitting, hanging details that he'd been fantasizing about _her, _were utterly non-laughing topics, and ones she'd analyze later, no doubt. But right now there were more pressing matters.

"Inspector," she said, quite a bit more loudly than strictly necessary. He woke with a start, and then, seeing where he was, visibly settled.

"My apologies for falling asleep on your company," he said with a sleepy, sheepish smile. "May I request a rain-date?" She couldn't help but return his smile, despite all the words that were threatening to escape her traitorous mouth.

"Well, naturally," she said, "but you have to promise to listen to my story next time."

Jack put on a very solemn expression.

"Cross my heart," he said, and Phryne laughed.

"Don't let Dottie see you doing that," she said, feeling rather proud of how steady her voice, and how she was managing to actually look at his face. Okay, maybe just the top of his hairline, but the intent was certainly there. Jack didn't seem to notice, but merely shook his head.

"Knowing that the loyalty of my supposedly most faithful officer lies with his beloved, I'll be careful of it." He paused. "Are you quite alright, Miss Fisher? You look flushed."

At the use of her name, in a context quite different from just a few moments before, Phryne let out a surprised cough, rather alarming her companion.

"Just warm," she tried for air and fell rather short, by her own accounts. "It's toasty tonight." That would probably have worked better if it had not been early March, and the day had shown sun, rather than blustering wind and light drizzle.

"Indulging a bit on our own, are we?" He asked her with a knowing smile.

As Jack fished for his hat and graciously declined her offer of a spare bedroom, Phryne Fisher had to wonder if maybe she should have been asking him the same question.


	2. Chapter II

**Rating: **M – for preemptive debauchery and all around (good) bad behavior.

**Pairing: **The best

**Disclaimer: **Jack is a Robinson, Phryne's a Fisher, alas, I own neither, as much as I wish-a. (I'm from N.J., people actually talk like that here.)

**A/N:** Again, I haven't finished Season 2, so I'm working from early on. In any case, thanks for reading!

O Inspector! My Inspector!

II.

Phryne woke the next morning with a dull throbbing in her temple and a clear-headed sense of determination. She had spent the night doing a fair bit of damage to her wine collection and going over and over the new details regarding her relationship with the handsome, if somewhat elusive, Inspector.

By one of the clock she had decided that, in no uncertain terms, she would not act upon the information gleamed from a vulnerable, sleeping man.

By two of the clock she had admitted to herself that she was a rather more than a bit curious as to what the rest of his dream had been about.

By three of the clock Phryne was refusing to admit to herself that was she really not in the least bit hot and bothered or distracted or aroused by anything the Inspector had whispered – thank you very much.

By four of the clock she admitted it.

By five of the clock she had finished two bottles of French Rose, and was wondering what would be so wrong in giving herself a leg up on flirting with Jack.

By six of the clock dawn was creeping through her windows, and Phryne was giving herself permission to take certain liberties regarding certain nocturnal affairs that a certain attractive detective had quite boldly expressed, whether he had been conscious at the time or no.

So she climbed into bed, preemptively cursing her coming headache, and opened her mind to any wandering dreams her own mischievous subconscious might have been able to conjure up.

But, as she woke three hours later to learn, the wine had put her into a rather deep sleep, and if she had dreams of an illicit nature, she had no recollection of them. She was going to have to content herself with the endeavor to act out the real thing.

She had decided on that late the previous night as well. Knowing her success rate with anything she put her mind to, and knowing that she was going to pull out the heavy artillery, Phryne had to concede to the possibility that her relationship with the Inspector might change forever. She also had to concede that she was already quite well on her way to that inevitability as it was. And _then_ she had to concede that she was rather okay with the thought of the whole thing, though that had taken to the bottom of bottle number two to come out into the open.

This whole thought process had been thoroughly addled by her favorite vintage, but when Dottie opened the curtains far too early the next morning, Phryne realized that her thoughts on the matter really hadn't changed.

"The Inspector is waiting downstairs, Miss Phryne," her dear friend said, clearly taking pains not to comment on the fact that last night's wine had definitely won the fight.

"Tell him I'll be right down," Phryne replied, then promptly shoved her head under the pillow.

She did make her way to meet her guest eventually, willing herself not to tell him everything he'd whispered the previous night.

He was sitting in the foyer, on the same blasted love seat, sipping a cup of tea and looking rather put off at how long he had been waiting for her. He wore no jacket, but still looked every bit the role of Inspector.

And that's when Phryne came to the first plan of attack on the man who would have no idea what hit him.

"Miss Fisher,' he said, standing, "I'm glad to see that you've joined the land of the living." She gave him an airy smile.

"You tease, Jack, surely," she replied. "As I recall, you fell asleep on me last night. It's only fair to return the favor." He seemed unable to find an adequate response to this, and simply steered her out the front door.

"You didn't tell me our missing person was Maxwell Claret," Phryne said sometime later, as they stood in said missing person's flat, searching for clues.

"I didn't realize it was that important," Jack replied, bending down to inspect a writing desk in the corner of the room.

"Well, of course it is!" Phryne said quickly, "to me, but also to the case!" Jack looked up, and for a fleeting second Phryne caught herself staring into his eyes. She focused.

"She's only one of the greatest underground writers of our time," Phryne said, waiting for the reaction she knew would come.

"She?" Jack sputtered. For all the time he spent with her, Phryne thought, Jack could be so endearingly naïve.

"Pseudonym," she replied. "It's not early for a woman to be a writer, you know."

"Nor a detective," Jack replied, saddling up beside her to scan the bookshelves. He was so close to her own body that Phryne felt heat surge though her at the very impropriety of it – something she had never concerned herself with before. But this was Jack, and, for better or for worse, this was different.

"Right you are, _Inspector,_ she said, leaning slightly against the bookshelf and putting the faintest lilt into her final word, as she edged her tongue out of her mouth, so slightly he could have missed it.

But he didn't miss it. For all his stoicism Jack's face bore no hidden secrets of his feelings. He swallowed hard, and she found she quite enjoyed the unsteady wobble of his Adam's apple, the smallest patch of skin, just begging to be tasted. His face remained flush free, which made Phryne feel as thought she'd have to try harder in the future, but his eyes had gone rather wide, not unlike a startled deer.

He coughed. "What did you say, Miss Fisher?" he asked. Phryne tossed her hand into the air, waving her fingers.

"I simply remarked upon the accuracy of your social commentary regarding my chosen profession and my rather un-chosen sex." She hadn't thought his eyes could go any wider, but apparently they could, because they did.

"Yes, well," Jack tripped over his words, and eventually settled upon the ridiculous action of glancing her body over head to toe.

"I can assure you, Inspector," Phryne began, keeping the lilt subtle, but undeniable, "I'm all woman."

He glanced back up to her face, and in a voice that was more growl than whispered, replied, "as if I could ever forget that."


	3. Chapter III

O Inspector! My Inspector!

III.

**Rating**: M, for decidedly more dastardly themes.

**Warnings: **Heavy flirtation, over allusions to the male anatomy, and surprise POV switch for this chapter.

**Disclaimer: **If they were mine you wouldn't be hearing about the fun.

**A/N:** Thanks so much for sticking with me guys! This story has been so much fun to write so far. In a bit of shameless self-promotion, I also sell short romances on Amazon. They're free for Kindle Unlimited, and can be found under the name Holland Rae. Thanks again for reading! Allons-y!

O Inspector! My Inspector!

III.

She was doing it on purpose, and Jack knew it. Well, of course she was doing it on purpose. Phryne Fisher did everything with a certain measure of calculation and intent, no matter how sporadic or spontaneous seeming the outcome. But it seemed like this time she was doing it extra on purpose, as if she wanted him to know that was doing it on purpose, and not have her intentions confused with regular behavior, which was doing it on purpose but trying to seem sporadic. Maybe he was already confused.

He shook his head, making his way up the path to her house, that grand old palace of a house, filled to the brim with people who loved her. The problem wasn't that she was doing it on purpose. With Phryne that was an inevitability. The problem was that he didn't know what _it_ was.

She had been more outrageous than usual, though how could one really tell? But the nuances and subtleties were fewer and further between, replaced with the brash out-and-out Phryne he had come to know so well. But what was scaring him, what was making him think that there was more going on – and whatever it was, it was definitely on purpose – was the dangerous, devilish glint in her eye. She somehow knew something he didn't know. When it came to him, Phryne Fisher had an ace up her sleeve, and that was cause for concern.

He reached the front door, those thoughts spinning around in his head, the running question of what _it_ could be, and rang the doorbell.

There was no answer. That was odd. Dot and Mr. Butler were always quick with the door. He stepped back to look up at the massive house, and realized he didn't hear the normal hustle and bustle. Janey was off at school, but usually Dot and Mr. Butler were cleaning or cooking in a regular cacophony of pots or brooms. And he often heard the sounds of Cec and Bert, gruff and workmanlike, joking and relaxed.

But now he heard none of those sounds, not even the shrill ring of Phryne's Aunt Prudence's tenor, which would have actually been welcome right now. He tried the front door – locked. Of course, it was always possible that they'd all gone out. She sometimes took them on trips together, didn't she? And surely no one had been expecting him to drop by with new clues on the Maxwell Claret case. But that theory wasn't sitting right with him as a detective, and he had far too much knowledge of Miss Fisher to ever assume she wasn't some kind of dangerous situation.

He hurried around to the back door, finding it mercifully open, and ran inside.

"Miss Fisher," he called loudly, feeling the erratic pounding of his own heart in his chest, solid and hollow. What if something had happened to them? What is something had happened to her. He tried desperately not to entertain the notion.

"Phryne," he called again. "Dot, Mr. Butler." He heard a faint call from upstairs.

"Up here, Jack," and he took the steps two at a time, until he landed with a thud at the top, and searched for the source of the noise.

"In here, Jack," she called again. She sounded as though she was sobbing, and Jack felt his skin prickle hot. He pulled the gun from his holster and then took a deep breath, pounding his shoulder against the door.

She wasn't sobbing. She was laughing, and a great wave of cold relief flooded his entire body at the sight of her alive and well and laughing. And then.

"What the hell, Phryne?" He didn't swear often, and he didn't use her first name often, but now seemed like an utterly appropriate time for both.

She was dressed in nothing more than a satin night gown, a light pink number, and each arm hung at an unnatural angle against the headboard – because she was handcuffed to it.

She was handcuffed to the bed. Before his mind had the ability to process this, she spoke.

"And hello to you too, Jack," she said, as calmly as if they were meeting for tea in her parlor and she was properly dressed and had the full functioning capability of all of her parts.

He swallowed. Hard. There was proof of the full functioning capability of all of _his_ parts.

"I thought you were in trouble," he replied, loathe to admit that his voice seemed to be lacking a certain authoritative quality that had apparently been replaced with a growl of a far more intimate nature.

She glanced at his gun, a devil of a smile on her face, and shook her head to the best of her ability, given the confined position of her body.

"Not that kind of trouble, Jack," she said, her tone as utterly innocuous and light as if she were asking him to pass the honey. At the thought of honey staining her plush lips, dripping down the tips of her fingers, Jack bit back a groan – and only just.

"Then what kind of trouble are you in, Miss Fisher?" He asked, stepping towards the bed and immediately regretting his decision to do so. The pale pink of her nightgown was riding indecently up her leg, inching closer to the pretty pink flesh of her upper thigh, and Jack was having a hard time concentrating.

"Surely, Jack," she was saying, "given the circumstances, you could as least call me Phryne. Miss Fisher makes me feel like an old woman, or," she paused, "a Madame." She was playing with him, dancing and taunting and teasing, like cat and mouse. Despite the fact that he had a gun, despite the fact that she was handcuffed to the bed, Phryne Fisher had all of the power.

"Phryne," he tried to say it with authority, though the word _scolding_ came to mind in a way that would have him never working as a policeman again. It didn't matter, because what escaped his mouth was not the tone of a formal inspector, but the undeniable pleading of a man whose hardness is nudging against his own thigh and whose desperate need, for touch, taste, hell, acknowledgement, is so utterly apparent in his own voice that it's impossible to hide.

Phryne heard the voice too, the husky reverberation of lust incarnate, for her eyes widened slightly and she licked her bottom lip in an apparent subconscious movement. _She was doing it on purpose, _he reminded himself.

He was getting increasingly uncomfortable under his long coat. This couldn't continue. He was going to lose his damn mind – or worse, tell her more than kisses and touches would ever reveal.

"Where are Dot and Mr. Butler?" He asked, thankfully regaining his normal speech when it came to the older solider and the sweetheart of his constable. Phryne shot him a fox grin, but didn't comment on the change of subject.

"Dottie's out with Hugh, and Mr. Butler had gone to town for some errands." The timingtwas utterly convenient, but who was he to point that out?

"And you managed to get yourself in this situation, how?" He asked, trying desperately to ignore the fact that _this situation_ was full of pale flesh and sensuality and an exposed goddess of temptation lain before him.

"Practicing my lock picking abilities," she said blithely, as if her situation were all in a day's work, though of course, for her, it was.

"And how's that going for you?" he asked, finally allowing himself a smile at her answer.

"Not well," she admitted, frowning. "I had a friend in Paris teach me to escape the cuffs, but I'm afraid I've quite forgotten the trick." She tugged fruitless against the headboard, and Jack tried unsuccessfully to ignore thoughts of gorgeous Parisian men deftly locking Phryne to the bed before having their way with her.

"Jack," she nudged his knee with her foot, and he focused. "Be a dear and get me the key?" She motioned to the makeup desk, and he spied the culprit.

"Why should I unlock you?" he asked her, looking at the key to avoid look at the scene she set on the bed. "I thought you were in some kind of trouble, Ms. Fisher. Maybe I should leave you here," he paused and looked at her, not knowing where his inclination to go along with this ridiculous act was coming from, but seemingly unable to stop himself, "to teach you a lesson." She licked her lips in response, and Jack cursed himself for making the situation even worse, as he watched her tiny pink tongue dart out and suck on flushed, red lips.

"Come now, Inspector," she said, and Jack groaned aloud at the double entendre, "that wouldn't be very nice."

He couldn't play this game anymore, not with any hope of self-preservation.

So he saddled up to the bed and took her wrist in his hand, feeling the smooth caress of her soft skin, and couldn't help but run a thumb over the small of her wrist, only distantly acknowledging the intimacy of the act. She moved her body slightly, pressing silk clad thigh against pant leg in an arching movement far better suited to what he wanted to be doing to her than what he actually was.

"Where did you get these handcuffs?" he asked her, perhaps leaning in closer than necessary. She looked up at him with a smile that shot straight to his groin.

"Now Jack," she whispered, "don't ask questions you already know the answer to." He made a mental note to check his desk when he got back to the precinct.

The key fell into the lock with a dull thud, and Phryne pulled her hand free. She stretched her wrists, bringing it to rest on his shoulder. He was so close to her, the whole of each breath was full of the scent of Phryne, and he was delirious with it, with the feel of her, dizzying and overwhelming. It would be so easy, to just lean down and –

The door to the back door shut with a slam, and Jack was up and out of her bed before the sound had stopped. He was in the doorway before she called his name.

"Jack," somehow sensual and powerful and brilliant all in one, "the other arm please?"

He turned and gave her a smile, saddling his hat on his head, and utterly reveling in the look of shock on her face as he said, as he left, "you still haven't learned your lesson," because she really hadn't made that expression on purpose.


	4. Chapter IV

**Disclaimer, Warnings and Ratings can be found in previous chapters.**

O Inspector! My Inspector!

Chapter IV

Phryne thumbed the worn leather cover of the book, enjoying the feel of antiquity upon her fingers. She hadn't pulled this particular book from the shelf in years, and the necessary dust jacket was coated in a thick layer of ancient air, and loose particles fled at the imposition of her fingers across the top of its pages.

Yes. This would do nicely, she though. When she first started this game, content to capitalize on her favorite Inspector's nocturnal admissions, she had assumed it would be a one-way affair, with the challenge on her end of crushing Jack Robinson's self-control, and on his end maintaining it. But after last week – she actually felt a shadow of a blush rise over her cheeks, and she finally removed the book, deliberately and slowly, as if she had an audience – after last week she had understood just how much she had underestimated her opponent. Perhaps the Inspector had been spending too much time with her. Or perhaps that small part of him was always simmering under the surface, the façade of decorum and poise a mask, under which no gentlemanly tendencies lay.

She had a firm grip on the memory, the almost predatory gleam in his eyes as he left the room, and the words had spoken, loudly, clearly, no fear at all that someone beside herself might have heard them. The very recollection of his growl, of the desire she had felt that had mirrored his own, had the clench of his jaw and rapid movement of his Adam's apple been any indication, had a familiar heat coursing through her own body, one that would only be tempted and teased with the memory. Yes, Phryne had underestimated her opponent, but she would not make that same mistake again.

She had barely had time to drape her legs over the settee and put on an air of causal indifference, the book properly dusted and sitting open on her lap, a glass of raspberry liquor in her hand, when the door knocker pounded, and pounded again and again, pulsing like an angry blood vessel through the house.

Mr. Butler ran to the door, an expression of concern apparent upon his face, one that abated slightly when the open door revealed nothing more dangerous than the Inspector. Rather, a very angry Inspector.

Jack gave Mr. Butler a curt nod, and then marched into the sitting room, looking down at her with a dangerous expression on his face.

"Hello there, Jack," Phryne said airily, which did an incredible job of irritating him further, of course the intent. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

His eyes flared at her particular word choice, and, if Phryne had ever entertained a doubt that Inspector Detector Jack Robinson was absolutely capable of taking control and complete power, it was gone in a flash. He was an image of barely restrained emotion, towering over her like an angry lion, and though Phryne really knew now wasn't the time, she had to admit that the image of Jack standing over her like that was making more than a small dent in her own self-control.

"Interesting word choice, Miss Fisher," he all but growled it, and Phryne knew that on this end the game wasn't going to last very long.

Jack was pacing in front of her now, muttering under his breath, and she strained to listen.

"You see, Miss Fisher, I've let you join into my investigations, I've turned a blind eye to some of your more unique persuasion techniques and I've gotten you out of trouble more times than I can count." He gritted his teeth, "so you would think I would at least be afforded the simply curtsy of some goddamned information." She raised an eyebrow at him. Apparently mentioning to Dottie exactly what kind of writer Maxwell Claret really was had worked better than expected.

"One of the greatest underground writers of our time," he began, "you just didn't tell me exactly why she was an underground writer, did you?" Phryne sat up, keeping her fingers firmly clenched around the dust jacket on the book. All in good time.

"Now Jack," she said sweetly. "You know my feelings on the profanity law." He glared at her. "I simply don't think it's necessary, is all."

"Phryne," he looked tired now, "she was arrested on three separate accounts for publishing pornography." Phryne couldn't help but roll her eyes.

"That's such a male way to phrase it," she replied. "It wasn't pornography." She rather enjoyed the way Jack's eyes widened at her use of the word. "Claret published a series of exposes on the role of power and control in sexual relationships, as well as compelling fiction in illustration of her thesis."

Jack was gaping at her. Really, by now he shouldn't have been surprised at anything she did. "Or so I've heard," she added.

He rolled his eyes at that. So he did have her number after all. Perhaps too well, it seemed, because he took a look at her face, and then at the innocuous book in her hand, and walked towards her, far more slowly than necessary.

"Miss Fisher," he began, his tone betraying nothing to her. "I know that you wouldn't willingly break the law." Like hell he knew that – he'd been an accomplice on more than one occasion. Yes, this felt like the opportune moment. She settled herself deeper into the couch, moving just enough to upset the book and its cover onto the floor.

It lay there on the carpet between them, electrifying the room in a buzz of anticipation, as if even the furniture and liquor decanters were waiting to see who would make the first move.

"I dare you, Jack," she said softy, though the confident tone didn't waver with volume. On its face the book was innocent enough, but upon closer inspection one could easily read the swirling gold cursive of the title, _In Defense of Female Power and Pleasure._ Phryne caught the exact moment Jack read the title by the expression on his face.

"Unless you're scared, that is." She eyed him, hoping her face revealed none of what she felt. He wasn't supposed to know that she knew what she did.

"It's illegal," he said quickly, never really taking his eyes from the book, as if it were an animal that might attack at the first sign of weakness.

"It's for a case," Phryne said, slowly getting up and picking the book off the floor, making an effort of wrapping it safely in the non-offending book jacket. "I'll tell you what," she began, walking towards him, slowly and deliberately, "if you read a chapter, I'll donate a large sum to the District 42 work house." He swallowed, but held strong.

Phryne had reached him now both hands on the book as she moved it into his grasp.

"And if I don't," he asked, eyeing her and the supposed pornography with an untrusting eye.

She took his hand, opening it slowly with her own and placing the book in his palm.

"Then I guess you just won't know what to do when it comes to a woman's power," she said with a laugh, walking towards the doorway. "Or, for that matter," she added, turning and leaning on the wooden jamb, "her pleasure, either."


	5. Chapter V

**Disclaimer**: See previous chapters

**Warnings: **Sexual tension, flirtation, cliffies

**A/N: **Un-betaed, which I haven't mentioned, but it's only fair. I've been working on a lot of my own writing, (shameless pitch, it's available under *Holland Rae on !) and this has been on the back burner. So thanks for sticking with!

O Inspector! My Inspector!

V.

Jack's eyes scanned the page again, and he felt a blush, an actual, godforsaken, schoolboy blush, rise on his cheeks. He must have been completely mad to have accepted a single thing from Miss Phryne Fisher's library, but to knowingly take home this book, to read it alone by lamplight in his anonymous apartment after midnight, was tantamount to walking into Bedlam and asking for a room. If he had wanted to see just how far his own self-control stretched, Jack thought with more than a hint of self-loathing, there had been other choices.

_The links between pleasure and power, and pleasure and pain, stem from a relationship of trust…_

The problem wasn't the book, at least not intrinsically. Jack had been to war, after all. And while the effect had been less than pleasant, there was the surprising fringe benefit of not really being shocked at human behavior. He'd seen men in all states, alive and otherwise. He'd known, young as he had been during the war, that different men went after different things from ladies of the night. Little surprised him anymore, in the vein of carnal instinct.

At least, analytically. The problem arose, both metaphorically and otherwise, when he applied this particular book to the intricate workings of his own most carnal instincts, and with whom he would have most liked to act upon those instincts.

He couldn't help thinking about Phryne reading the book he now held in his hands. Had she been aroused, enlightened, excited by what she read? Jack failed to suppress a groan, and images came to him mind along with it. Had she touched herself to this book, the way he was willing himself so desperately not to do now? Had she spread those impossibly long legs over the arms of her chair, and slipped one elegant fingers into –

He slammed the book shut.

And opened it again. He felt, not for the first time, like a randy schoolboy with a ragged, handed-down nudy mag. The words popped from the page, taunting him, mocking him. He was letting Phryne under his skin again, and that was always a dangerous position in which to find oneself. Images of other positions that Jack would have enjoyed finding himself in, with the company of a certain Miss Fisher, descended on his weakened subconscious with vigor, and this time he didn't even bother trying to hide the groan that escaped his lips.

Finally, finally, Jack swallowed hard. He was already knee deep into the game; it was too late to do anything but play to win.

If it wasn't her ears that were deceiving her, then surely Phryne's wits were not long for this world. Perhaps she had broken him, she thought rather oddly to herself. Perhaps it had been one too many pushes over the edge, and Jack Robinson had officially gone mad, intending to take her over the edge along with his addled wits.

But then he said it again, a slowly, nearly imperceptible murmuring, made all the more torturous by intonation of Jack's husky voice. She could listen to him recite recipes, and still her body would respond with a disloyal vigor to the mesmerizing sway of his voice, commanding and powerful.

Right at the moment, however, it wasn't the tone of his voice that was making her question her very sanity, but what he was using it to say.

"Can you repeat that, Inspector?" she asked him, acknowledging the high-pitch of her voice with a blithe recognition of Jack's effect on her body. He perked his head to one side, offering the kind of smile that meant he enjoyed having something to hold over her, and then pursed those full, pink lips together in a way that made Phyrne sure he knew the kind of mad heat he was putting her body through.

"I asked if you had any inclination as to whether Maxwell Claret was a dominate or submissive," he repeated, and this time Phryne was sure that she hadn't concocted the extra emphasis he put on the words, hadn't invented the knowing, nearly smug smile that tugged the corners of those lips up.

"I think," her voice was far too high, and Phryne coughed slightly to attempt normalcy in her tone. "I think she might have enjoyed both elements of the technique," she said, not missing Jack's raised eyebrow at her utterly innocuous words, nor the unabashedly hungry expression deep in his eyes.

"That's an option?" he asked, far too innocently to be genuine. The bastard had read her book, likely more than one, and she knew it. Now, how to get him to admit it?

"I imagine human behavior is far more complex than taking the power or giving it," she replied, rather enjoying the way Jack's Adam's apple moved in behind his rough skin, skin that longed to be tasted and explored and understood. He clearly understood their game, even if he didn't acknowledge it. But Phryne couldn't let such an opportunity go untested.

"What about you, Jack?" she asked him, stepping close, but not too close. She didn't want to seem overly eager, after all, just mildly interested.

"What about me?" he replied, but the expression in his eyes, one made of understanding and waning self-control, told Phryne it was more to do with his own rules that he played so innocently.

She leaned against the wall, sliding down slightly, and gave him a wicked grin. "Do you consider yourself submissive," she rolled her tongue over the word with a deliberate slowness, thoroughly enjoying the slight throbbing in the pulse at his neck, and the obvious disintegration of his self-control. She couldn't help herself, though she tried, but not around Jack, she too had a short supply of self-control where he was concerned. So she walked up to him, twirling his tie in her fingers, and immensely enjoying the way he closed his eyes to her feather light touch across his shirt. That gave her the opportunity to push Jack up against the walk behind him, taking both of his thick wrists above his head, and finishing her query – "or dominant?"

If the throbbing hardness pressing into her thin dress was any indication, Jack Robinson was one of those lucky individuals who found pleasure in both of the acts. He inhaled a choked breath, and opened his eyes, exposing deep, dilated pools of lustful desire, watching her, waiting to see what see would do.

"They say," Phryne went on, wondering exactly what her next step was going to be. She had gotten here, and her body was alive with the fascination and adventure of it, calling to the taut muscled frame before her, but she didn't have any plan as to what to do next. "They say," she repeated, remembering some of Maxwell Claret's more controversial texts, "that your personality in public is the antithesis of your position in power play." She paused and raised an eyebrow at him, wondering if her own desire was as apparent on her face as Jack's was on his. He wanted her, and there was no mask, no covering it up. As if the pulsing movement against her thigh wasn't indication enough, his eyes seemed poised to devour her in lustful appetite, and their half-lidded desire, and the parting of his lips, as if subconsciously asking for her kiss, had Phyrne's whole body feeling a molten desire that ran from her crown to her toes, as if every inch of her was waiting to be tasted and touched by him.

"Is that so?" Jack asked, though it came out low and husky. Phryne nodded, though she had having difficulty remembering exactly what Jack was referring to, and what she had said to prompt it. He was moving his hips now, so slowly it was barely perceptible, but she knew he was doing it on purpose, pressing their bodies together in a lustful union that only promised of more to come. "In that case -,"

Phryne didn't realize what was happening until she felt the wood behind her back, and Jack's single hand holding both of her wrists above her head, the rest of his body looming large and wild over her.

"Looks like our roles are reversed." Of course they were, she realized belatedly. She was all pomp and circumstance by day, and he remained quiet and controlled. Her desire to be taken was only natural, after all, just as Jack's desire to control opposed the character she knew so well, but fit him perfectly all the same.

"Well, Inspector," she said, rolling that sinful, guilty word over her tongue with deliberation. That ridiculous word was all to blame, anyway. "Now that you have," she tried to wiggle out of his grip, but his enormous hand was firm around her wrists, and she simply succeeded in sliding her hips closer to his. "What are you going to do with me?" The word hung in the air, nearly visible in the fog of desperate tension that surrounded them, and Phryne swore she saw Jack lick his lips, inhaling deeply.

"I think," he began, and he dipped his head slightly, ghosting the heat of his breath over her ear, over her neck, over her sensitive skin until Phryne thought she might forgo the game because she hadn't even _touched_ him yet, and she was already melting into a puddle at his feet, "the better question is, where do we start?"

There were a thousand ways Phryne saw the next moment going – what actually happened was none of them.

The door to the library swung open, and a young woman, no more than twenty-three, charged inside, Hugh Collins fast on her heels. Her hair was wild, and her expression one of absolute manic, face contorting as she shouted in rapid French.

Both of the intruders stopped at the image that awaited them, and it was as if time froze for an instant. Jack released her wrists so quickly it was nearly audible, and Phryne lowered her arms, each of them making a wide space from the other.

Hugh coughed; his face flushed a color Phryne hadn't realized existed in nature, and then turned to the woman, now fuming so visibly steam nearly came from her ears.

"Inspector, Miss Fisher," Hugh said, youthful voice catching in his throat. "This is miss Julianne Winter, Maxwell Claret's wife."


	6. Chapter VI

O Inspector! My Inspector!

**Warning and Disclaimers – **See previous chapters.

**A/N: **Thanks for sticking with this story! I've hit that point where I slow down writing, and I'm sorry! Partially to blame is my own writing, (shameless self-promotion, check out my e-books on Amazon, under Holland Rae.) This chapter is short, and very plot driven, but I promise I'll make it up to you! Anyways, thanks for reading!

O Inspector! My Inspector!

Chapter VI

Julianne Winter was a beautiful woman, Phryne considered, once the rose tinge of hysteria had faded from her cheeks and her voice had marked down several decibels to a volume more suitable for the human ear. She sat now in Phryne's foyer, sipping slowly at a cup of tea and occasionally looking around at her collection of odds and ends.

"You have Maxxie's whole set," the young woman said finally, placing her teacup on the side table and rising from her seat. She made her way over to the bookshelf across the room, staring sadly at a whole row of seemingly innocuous book jackets.

"It was a gift," Phryne replied, and for the first time since the case had begun, a stab of marked sadness pulsed through the whole of her. "Max – I only met her once. But I helped her out of some trouble and she thanked me with the collection." Julianne turned to her, a sad smile etched across her thin lips, but her eyes were dry.

"What trouble?" she asked, and Phryne got the impression that it was the first time the young woman had been forward in her relationship after the loss, the first time she had been able to grieve for her wife, and not just a friend.

"We were in Copenhagen," Phryne said, somewhat fondly. "Somehow she got involved in an art theft ring." She paused, remembering what was then the face of a young woman. "I found her a way out, snuck her through to relatives in Amsterdam." Julianne's face lit up with the tale.

"You're the woman from the story?" she began, apparent happiness softening her features. "Oh, that was Maxxie's favorite story to tell." Across the room, Jack caught Phryne's eye with an inquisitive look, but she simply shook her head to indicate that she would give him the fuller version of the tale later.

Later. When would that be, Phryne considered, as she moved the young Miss Winter back towards the seat, in hopes of gaining more information relative to the case. Despite all that had occurred in the time since Julianne had barged into the room, Phryne's whole self was still aware of Inspector Detector Jack Robinson, and the effect that their almost kiss continued to have on her weak self-control. She could all but feel the press of his hardness against her thigh, all but taste the droplet of sweat that ran down the dark skin at the base of his neck. She felt herself longing for it in a way she had never before. To finally have the apple of Eden so tantalizingly close, only to endure the moment of its being snatched away, was nearly more than she bare.

"Miss Fisher," she damned him, the sweet caress of his voice. The more authoritative, the better, she realized, especially when twinged with a needy desire, still husky from the rendezvous that wasn't. "Would you care to join in hearing Miss Winter's account? For the case?"

She shook herself from the lustful daze, and moved to join the questioning, purposefully sitting beside Julianne on the couch. The more distance between herself and the Inspector, the more likely she was to maintain any semblance of focus at all.

"Why don't you begin at the beginning?" Jack prompted. "You say Miss Claret was your wife?"

Some two hours later, Mr. Butler was finally escorting the young woman out of the door. She had politely declined the invitation of dinner, but had promised to remain in touch, if any new information came to light.

Once back in the foyer, Phryne allowed herself the luxury of flopping down on the cushioned settee, closing her eyes, and releasing a long, deep sigh.

"What a tale," she said finally, cracking one eye to stare at the Inspector, who had settled into a chair across from her and was playing absentmindedly with the rim of his glass.

"It makes your life seem positively uneventful," he said with a tired smile. "Hand-fasting in Ireland, outlawed in Spain, caught up with a art theft ring in Copenhagen…" he said it nonchalantly, but Phryne cracked her eye open to glare at him. Clearly he'd been awaiting the remainder of the story with baited breath since the subject had been first breeched.

"It's not nearly as interesting as all of that," she replied, moving to a seated position before pouring herself a drink from the nearest decanter. "I was visiting relatives, and our paths crossed." Jack raised an eyebrow. She rolled her eyes.

"Fine," she said, putting the glass down on the table. "I was also looking for another writer at the time, a woman publishing an underground newspaper on preventatives for family planning." She paused and raised her eyebrow at him, as if expecting him to comment and when he didn't she continued. "That's how I ended up meeting Claret in the first place. In truth, I wasn't involved with the art theft." He gave her a once over, and seemed to determine that she was being honest.

"No matter," Phryne continued, leaning back into the seat and taking a long sip from her drink. "That was then. Time to focus on the now." In truth, she was having a very difficult time focusing on anything that wasn't Jack's hot gaze on her face, or the way he seemed to be openly watching, analyzing her. Her thoughts spun of their own volition, and for a blissful second, she was pressed against the bookshelf again, her mouth nearly tasting him, his whispers on her neck.

Jack coughed, and looked as though he were about to speak. Instead, however, he pulled his small notebook from his pocket, and flipped through the pages.

"Winter's information certainly helped," he began, "I'm of the mind that we take a visit to the Café Mystique."

She had been taking a sip of her drink, but when Jack spoke she nearly choked on the spicy liquor. Never, in her whole of knowing him, would she have bet that Inspector Detector Jack Robinson would utter those words.

A second thought passed as quickly as the first, and Phryne had to bite back the Cheshire Cat grin threatening to show across her face. What place better to test the resolve of this stalwart detective, than at the Café Mystique?

"Are you quite alright, Miss Fisher? He asked her, and Phryne rolled her eyes. Of course he was back to propriety. Stone sober from their interrogation, her hard earned efforts had been lost the moment Julianne Winter had stormed into the house.

"Fine," Phryne replied, perhaps a tad too enthusiastically. "But, Jack," she paused and let her eyes rake his body over in a very obvious display, "you do know what kind of place the Café Mystique is, don't you?" He coughed, catching onto her perusal of his form.

"A gathering place of underground writers and the like," he replied confidently, though she could hear the waiver in his voice.

"Something of the sort," Phryne replied, standing from the couch and turning towards the door. "I'm going to change," she added, and then slid her hand across the broad width of his shoulders so lightly that he could have missed it. "You might want to get ready to dance."

Then she left him in the foyer without another word.


End file.
